


A Different Kind of Glow

by SkirtWithAWeapon



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Short One Shot, children of atom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 19:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10600323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkirtWithAWeapon/pseuds/SkirtWithAWeapon
Summary: Brian Richter, Grand Zealot of the Children of Atom, began receiving anonymously written love poems at his post on the Nucleus.





	

Brian Richter woke an hour before dawn. He rose, lit the candles on his night stand that doubled as a shrine to Atom, then knelt and offered a prayer. He thanked Atom for giving him the gift of another day in His service, bid Atom for the grace and knowledge to do His will as He would see fit, then asked for a blessing on the day. He exhaled, feeling a peace, as he usually did following his morning prayer.

Richter stood and donned the simple garments he chose to wear underneath his Blessed power armour. He combed his hair, tied it neatly, then retrieved his radium rifle from its stand in the corner of his very modest room. He crept from his quarters, navigated the quiet gangways, and into the armoury, where his power armour hung.

At dawn, the Holy Song began, and the other zealots began to stir from their slumber. Richter, as Grand Zealot, was not required to lead the praise, but oversaw it from his usual post on the gangway between the entrance to the High Confessor’s chamber and the rest of the Nucleus. A procession began to gather, below. 

He felt at ease. He glanced around, a reflex of his military conditioning, and noticed something…out of place. Someone had left a folded piece of paper next to the small gathering of candles that sat next to his post, on the gangway. He muttered to himself, condemning the lazy new zealots who didn’t show a care for littering, and stooped to retrieve it.

To his surprise, a single word was scrawled on the outside: “Richter.”

He blinked, then glanced around. There were no other people nearby, just the procession below. Richter frowned, and opened the note. It contained a poem, unsigned:

 

 

_Your light_

_is as warm and inviting as The Glow_

_My heart_

_leaps and rolls at the sound of your_

_deep voice_

_words of devotion_

_Sweet Richter_

_Grand Zealot of my soul_

 

 

 

“Wh...what foolishness is this?” he grumbled to himself, flushing slightly.

“Sir?” a young zealot initiate had materialized out of nowhere.

Richter jumped, embarrassed at being startled. He crumpled the note hastily and dropped it into the flame of the candle. “Yes, zealot? Do you need a job?”

The next morning, he took his post as always and found yet another note. Just as the day before, it was folded in half, with his name written on the front of it. It contained another, unsigned poem:

 

 

_beautiful is the music_

_of the tune of my heart_

_when it should chance_

_to look_

_upon_

_your grace_

Richter shook his head. He glanced around, but as before, there was no one around. Not even a young zealot to interrupt his thoughts. _Some scamp is just playing a joke on me._ He burned that poem, too.

The following morning, yet another poem sat at his post. Richter’s first instinct was to burn it up, sight unseen, but curiosity won out over his better judgment. He sighed, looked around, and satisfied no one would see him read the note, he opened it.

 

 

_flames_

_such flames!_

_Rising up, consuming_

_my deepest, fullest_

_thoughts_

_For Richter_

_such a heat has_

_never_

_been stirred before_

_I hide in the shadow_

_of the flames_

_But Soon_

_I may be revealed_

_and We_

_shall embrace_

Richter frowned. He would be the first to admit that arts and poetry were not things he understood very well, and part of him worried that the latest poem was a thinly veiled threat. He pocketed the note, and went about his day.

The anonymous poetry showed up every day for the rest of the week. He did his best not to think too much about it, reading them, then burning them in the candle. It became somewhat of a routine. By the middle of the second week of notes, he had had enough. His curiosity could no longer be ignored. That night, after leaving his power armour in the armory below, he took some piecemeal supplies and water, and stole himself into the shadows near his post. Richter was determined to finally confront this “admirer,” and ask them to stop.

 _That’s the polite thing to do, right? Just tell them to stop leaving notes, that I am flattered, but not interested. Brings back some awkward memories._ He grunted, settling down onto the gangway, and waited.

Hours passed. He listened as the rest of the Nucleus wound down for another night. Hushed evening prayers concluded, feet shuffled back to sleeping quarters. The overnight guard changed. The ambient lighting dimmed as candles were snuffed out and zealots found their beds.

He remained vigilant, and waited. He guessed the time drew close to midnight. Richter’s eyes began to feel heavy for a want of sleep. Gone were the days when his superiors in the Enclave would just dish out stimulant pills and he’d be alert and focused for sixteen hours, or more, the thought of a nap never crossing his mind.

He leaned his chin on his fists, and propped his elbows up on his crossed legs, staring at the candles. Finally, from the direction of the High Confessor’s quarters, appeared a robed initiate zealot. The figure knelt, and tenderly swept away the ashes of the burned note left the night before, then carefully placed a new one between the candles.

Richter stood, and took a step to approach the figure. His foot landed on a softer part of the metal gangway, which creaked such a metal squeal as to sound exceptionally loud in the ambient quiet. The figure whipped around at the sound. “Halt,” Richter commanded, lifting his hand to stop the figure.

The figure froze, completely.

“Remove your hood.”

The figure complied. The person beneath appeared vaguely familiar to Richter. He had a full head of hair, tied up in a small bun on the top of his head. Four half-rings were tattooed on his forehead, concentrically, from his hairline. The low light made it too difficult to see any other features, such as his eye colour. Richter noticed the young man had holy circles tattooed on the back of both hands, and perhaps beyond – his robes covered any other markings. He swallowed. “Grand Zealot! I…I didn’t expect…”

Richter took another step closer to the young man. “You’ve been leaving these messages?”

The young man swallowed again, and nodded. “Do you remember me?”

Richter looked him over, but shook his head. “You look familiar, but I’m sorry, zealot, I don’t know why.”

“You received me, after my trial. I was fatigued, and collapsed. You…helped me. You looked me in the eye, and told me, that Atom had blessed me, and you yourself dubbed me zealot.” The man broke eye contact, and smiled. He made a slight gesture towards the note left between the candles. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, since. Every minute, every hour, my heart, it…it beats for you. I just wanted to let you know.”

“You wrote all those letters? Those…poems?”

“Indeed.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Richter was at a complete loss for words. A warmth had begun to spread throughout his body, something he hadn’t felt before. He was quickly losing his resolve to just tell this young man the old “thanks, but no thanks,” and instead it was replaced with…with what? Tenderness?

The zealot cleared his throat. He shifted his weight. “I didn’t mean to cause you any…distress. I was selfish, thinking only of myself and my feelings, and never considered –“

“What’s your name?” Richter interrupted.

“…Dretsch, sir. Cory Dretsch.”

Richter paused. He scratched his chin. _Here goes. “_ Cory. Let’s…I mean, enough with the secret notes. Okay?”

Cory’s shoulders fell. He sniffed, then nodded.

“Tea. Tomorrow. After midday meal and prayers.” Richter felt like his words sounded like a malfunctioning robot. He pressed on. “We…talk. With tea.” He toed the gangway awkwardly. Nerves overcame him, an unfamiliar feeling.

Cory’s eyes widened. They seemed to sparkle, as well. “I…why, yes. Yes, of course. I’ll bring it, I’ll bring everything. Upstairs, on the upper catwalks, where we’ll have some quiet.”

“We’re just going to talk,” Richter repeated. He felt like his heart had jumped into his throat. _What is happening?_

“Yes. With tea.” Cory winked. He pressed his hands together and offered a slight bow, as he began to retreat back down the gangway that went past the Confessor’s quarters. “Goodnight, Grand Zealot. Blessings of Atom be with you." 

“Blessings to you, zealot,” Richter replied mechanically. He watched Cory cross the submarine, then disappear under the overhangs on the other side. He took a breath, quickly snatched up the newest letter, then went back to his own quarters for the night, holding it close.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the "which lover is your favourite?" thread on the official Bethesda forums, where a couple of us lusted over a certain tattooed, power armour clad, beautifully voiced NPC you couldn't have as a companion. He deserved some attention ;D
> 
> I promise not to write any more poetry. I am terrible at it :P


End file.
